


All Bets are Off

by OtroAmigo



Series: All Bets are Off [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Public Sex, Rimming, Toys, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-07-11 20:00:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7067980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtroAmigo/pseuds/OtroAmigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve should honestly stop making bets. The universe loved to prove him wrong, so he doesn't know why he even bothers. That is until a stranger on the train makes him all weak in the knees. And that isn't just the vibrator in his ass talking, he swears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally the first work of fiction I have ever, in my life, written. Be gentle, its my first time :)

This was not how he had planned to start out the day. Today was supposed to be just like every other day before it. But Steve was a man of his word, if nothing else. Even if that word was a poorly made, drunken bet with Clint over a game of darts, where the dartboard was taller than him, so he was forced to aim high. Way high. So here he sat, on a crowded early morning train, barreling towards the financial district. He was trying to keep some sense of normalcy by reading, but he had read the same sentence four times now and still didn’t remember a word of it. The flush holding steady and high on his cheeks was surely giving him away, but as he glanced at the other passengers from above his book, he was relieved to find them just as bleary eyed and distracted as he was. Well, maybe not  _ as _ distracted.

He took the opportunity to squirm in his seat, hoping to relieve at least some of the pressure the hard train seat was applying to the small device in his ass. This was not part of Steve’s normal work attire, but a bet was a bet, and he’d be damned before he’d let anyone call him a welcher. And he just might be damned, seeing as he was going to a job interview in Manhattan with a vibrator in his ass.  

He took some solace knowing that the remote to control it was in his jacket, but that solace was very small indeed as another shiver of pleasure made its way up his spine. Perhaps he had followed the article on just where to place a vibrator in his ass just a little too well. It seemed that no matter what he did, the little egg shaped toy pressed insistently against his prostate. He was now glad that he happened to choose his loosest pair of corduroy pants to wear today. He hadn’t expected the toy to have quite this big of an effect on him; he just hoped that effect wasn’t quite as obvious as it felt.

Just as he was beginning to believe he had found a position that would allow him at least endure the rest of the train ride without having to buy a new pair of pants, the train slowed to a halt. As some passengers sleepily shuffled off and out, more pushed on. Steve was relieved to see that no one had settled in next to him just yet. Until he risked another glance up and met steel cold eyes. Shit. He was going to blame the suspiciously timed tacky wetness he could now feel in his briefs on the vibrator in his ass and no one could tell him differently. It certainly wasn’t almost six feet of tall, dark, and brooding standing in front of him. No way.

Steve’s luck couldn’t possibly get any worse. He hadn’t offended any spirits or gods lately, so karma couldn’t possibly be coming for him, here, now, on this train. Karma was a bitch. The man ducked his shaggy head, closing off the view of his eyes, and stepped forward. He turned and dropped into the seat next to Steve with a disturbing amount of grace for what Steve assumed to be a bum of some sort. He looked it. His red shirt was worn and full of holes, his jacket vaguely resembled military attire a decade past its prime, and his jeans; Steve would bet they could probably stand up on their own. Steve was the betting kind, and something in him wanted to see that bet play out. The blonde widened his eyes and looked at his book like it had personally offended him at the thought. What the fuck was wrong with him? There were only so many things he could blame on the toy, and the list was getting a little long for his taste. He may have been having a bit of a dry spell, but that was no excuse to start making sex eyes at every random hot guy he saw on the subway. The man spread his legs, a dirty jean-clad knee bumping into his bouncing corduroy covered one. Steve hadn’t even noticed it was jiggling. He immediately stopped it, but that just made the contact all the more noticeable to his over-sensitized nerves.

Eyes still on the pages in front of him, he took a deep breath, thinking he’d have to hold it if the man next to him smelled as disheveled as he looked, and promptly regretted it. The man next to him smelled…out of place, like late nights and bourbon and candles burned down low. It was a breath that went straight to Steve’s groin and it was all he could do to tamp down the whimper that rose in his throat. Hobo man seemed to be staring directly at a spot on the floor between his spread feet. Steve couldn’t convincingly continue to pretend to read his book and peek at the floor to see what was so interesting, so he let it go and made another feeble attempt to focus on his book. Not two unremarkable sentences later, he felt a sharp jolt of pleasure that almost caused him to drop his useless book. The vibrator began to pulse harder. Almost immediately he felt it again, the distinct sensation of the toy being turned up a level. Biting the inside of his cheek, he looked under his eyelashes at the man next to him.

The bastard was now holding the little sleek remote that Steve would have sworn was in his pocket, staring at it curiously while rubbing his thumb over the control. He seemed to have no idea what he held in his stupidly large hands. That must have been what he was staring so hard at between his feet. Steve now wished he would have just looked, damn his pretentious non book reading to hell.

S _ o you could what? _ he thought,  _ get on your knees between his legs to keep it from his hands? _ Okay, so it was a  _ really _ bad time to be thinking about being on his knees between this strangers spread legs. He pointedly looked away, hoping to be able to ignore this entire embarrassing situation long enough that the man got bored or Steve died of mortification, whichever came first. If this didn’t end soon, he was going to be the one coming first…in his pants. On a train. Surrounded by people. Could his luck get any worse?

The man was not growing bored. He was bound and determined to figure out the little remote in his hand it seemed. Steve was barely holding it together. He admitted to himself that his briefs were unsalvageable at this point, clinging to his wet dick, but that wasn’t even his main concern at this point. No, he was preoccupied with keeping as still and quiet as possible, because god help him if the man next to him found out exactly what that remote went to and where it was. God was not on his side today, it seemed. Steve couldn’t help the full body twitch he performed as the vibrator was taken up another notch, nor could he stop the accompanying little gasp. He prayed it was small enough to not be noticed.

Had he already said it wasn’t his lucky day? Using his eyelashes as cover again, he snuck a glance to his left. His eyes slowly tracked from the stranger’s hands, still clutching the tiny purple remote, up his thick forearms, over his obscenely broad chest (okay, there was no way this guy was a bum, he thought) and to his surprised grey eyes. Shit. Eyes that were looking back at his barely revealed blue ones. Eyes that were looking back from a face that was slowly morphing from mild surprise to absolutely devilish intent. His gaze narrowed, focusing on Steve, and his lips curled up into a smile that looked too young and mischievous on his stubble darkened face. His thumb twitched in Steve’s periphery, and the corresponding jolt through his body makes the man’s grin grow even wider. Steve decided to actually put his book down, seeing as it would be more useful over his lap than in front of his eyes at this point. He was sure he was biting his cheek hard enough to bleed, but the pain only topped the pleasure, like a cherry on a sundae he couldn’t eat. Yet.

The man curled his fist over the remote, keeping his thumb on the control, and put his hands in his coat pockets. He leaned back into the uncomfortable train bench, relaxed even further, and spread out like a cat. A very large, muscular cat. With a very smug Cheshire grin on his face. Steve was acutely aware of the hot line the man’s thigh was making against his own, pressed closer now with his relaxed spread. So this was how he died? Not a bad way to go, if he was being honest. Steve let another small sound escape from his mouth as the toy kicked up another notch. He now regretted getting the one with twelve settings. By his count, he was only at six. He was both dreading and anticipating the rest of his morning commute.

The man waited until the next stop to press the button again, making Steve twitch almost comically as passengers shuffled in and out of the train car. Seven. Steve was sweating now, he could feel it in the way his blue button-up stuck to his skin and the way the sweat slicked his hands, which were clutching the most useless book in human history over his bulging crotch. He pressed it again and Steve’s mouth soundlessly dropped open, eyes widening. Eight. The train pulled into another station and the car was packed, the doors were just about to close as a tottering little blue-haired old lady stepped over the gap, leaning her weight on her cane. Steve knew what his morals were urging him to do. Stand. Offer her his seat. He wanted to. He just wasn’t sure if he could physically even stand. He looked over to the man sprawled next to him, and then back to the little old woman leaning with the sway of the train. Steve could see the moment it dawned on the man. He knows what Steve was thinking, what he wanted to do. He smirked and pressed the button in his pocket again, as if to tell Steve to go ahead and do it. Nine. It was almost unsettling, how well he could read the order in that smile, in the crinkle of those eyes. He swore he had never met this man before in his life, but he knew exactly how to follow his orders.

Steve stood on unsteady legs, still holding the useless book in front of his aching erection. He nodded the woman over to his seat. She smiled at him and made her way over, and stabbed her cane into the floor with each teetering step. She sat gingerly, almost daintily. Steve felt acute shame, being in the state he was in and in front of a woman who looked disturbingly like his grandmother. The shame did nothing to quell his arousal. Standing had shifted the position of the vibrator just so; it was pressed more desperately into his prostate, and weakening his knees in the process. To add fuel to the fire, the man pierced him with a knowing stare while he pressed the remote in his pocket again. Ten. Steve was pretty sure if he moved this book, the wet spot on the front of his pants would be dark and visible. He was not willing to check. The train pulled into the last stop before Steve’s, and the man lounging on the bench pulled himself up out of his seat. He moved like a predator, with more lethal intent than when he entered the train, Steve was sure of it. As he made his way to the door he twisted his body to squeeze between Steve and another passenger, barely avoiding brushing Steve’s face with his chest. Steve got another deep breath and almost dropped to his knees right there. This man had him by almost a foot in height, smelled like a speakeasy, and was capable of ordering Steve around with little more than his eyes. And as quickly as he was there, he was gone, leaving Steve standing in the middle of a crowded train car with the worst erection he’d ever had in his life and a vibrator wrecking his ass. As Steve bit his lip and turned away from the subway doors, he made eye contact with the little old lady in his seat.

“Boy, they don’t make em like that anymore, lemme tell ya. I’d be takin’ a sick day…or three if I were you…” she said conspiratorially, looking up at him. His mouth dropped open. He didn’t think he’d been that obvious… but if this little old lady had made him, who else had? Shit. He didn’t have time for this. The little lady was right. He had been given an order, he was supposed to follow the man out of the train, no question. What the hell was he still standing here for? Sure, he had a job interview, but he wasn’t destitute and he could get another. What were the chances of ever finding that guy, or even a guy like him ever again?

Steve made his way out of the train car as quickly as he could while keeping his crotch covered, just barely slipping past the closing train doors. He stood on the platform as the train left, out of breath and wondering what the fuck he was doing with his life. Hoping he hadn’t missed the stranger and the opportunity of a lifetime, he glanced around the station. His clothes were still sticking wetly to his skin, some more than others, his blonde hair unrecognizable from its early morning perfection. The black rimmed glasses he wore kept sliding down his nose and he was positive the heavy breathing and red flush to his face was doing wonders for his already less than appealing physique. He was skinny and asthmatic and a laundry list of other defects, but here he was, about to go hit up a random stranger whom he mistook for a hobo at first glance for what was hopefully sex. Maybe today was his lucky day after all.

His eyes found the man leaning against the subway tiles, hands still in his pockets. The thought of what was in those pockets, in those hands, made Steve shudder. The heated gaze he met from under unruly brunette hair made Steve catch his breath. Oh, it was on. He pushed off the subway wall without pulling his hands out of his jacket pockets and turned to go up the subway exit. Steve followed, a small part of his mind warning him that this could be a very bad idea, but a larger, lower, part of him said he might, just this once, be this lucky. The man didn’t take any strange paths or dark alleys, and he walked with purpose, but still slow enough for Steve, with a furiously vibrating toy in his ass and a book clutched for dear life in front of his crotch, to keep pace. This was either the worst or best decision of his life.

 

Stranger man suddenly turned up a set of stairs into the lobby of an old brownstone, casually holding the door for Steve. He shuffled into the building with as much dignity as he could muster, given the circumstances. He made his way to the elevator, standing in front of it and not knowing where to go from there. Should he push the call button? He knew they must be going up, there weren’t basement apartments in this kind of building that were accessible from the interior. But that wasn’t his dilemma. Was he  _ allowed _ to press the call button? Or would he be punished? Was he overthinking this?

Just as he started to panic, he felt the man’s presence a hairsbreadth behind him, his breath ghosting over the top of his head. 

The stranger’s arm came out from behind him and pushed the button for him, just barely grazing his shoulder. Steve caught his breath. This had to be the longest half hour of his life. He was loving every minute of it. As the doors opened he was nudged in the small of his back from behind, urging him into the elevator. He went without resistance, practically vibrating in time with the toy inside of him. The anticipation was almost tangible in the small space. Steve didn’t turn around, just kept moving further back into the elevator, obeying the hand at his back. It didn’t stop pushing him until he was pressed against the wall from head to toe. Steve dropped his book in favor of putting his damp palms flat against the elevator panels. Useless fucking book anyway. The doors closed behind them, and he could sense the man move his arm towards the panel of buttons on the left side of the door. And then, with no warning, the man was pressed against him, burly chest to his small back. 

Steve could feel the heat from him, the hard ridge of his erection nestled above his ass, his frankly massive thighs bracketing his own, and pinning him completely. He felt a hand slide down his ribs and curl around his right hip. God, his hands made Steve feel fucking tiny. One hand was enough to span from the middle of his back almost around to his belly button. Tightening his grip on Steve’s hip, he ground his erection into his back, hard. It pushed the breath out of him and ended in a whimper that seemed louder than it actually was in the enclosed space. The stranger responded to the whimper with a growl, animalistic and deep in his throat. Steve’s knees gave way, he was already on the edge, and that sound almost did him in. The man was still leaning heavily against his back, breathing deeply and grinding into him slowly, pressing him harder into the wall in front of him. It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did. 

Steve was pretty sure he wasn’t going to make it to wherever this guys apartment was. His ass was still lighting up every time he was pressed against the wall, the toy fitting more snuggling against his prostate with every roll of powerful thighs behind him. And his underwear were just a lost cause at this point. He’d always gotten dripping wet with precum before, but this was a whole new level, even for him. Perhaps the pants were a loss too at this point. This was, hands down, the hottest thing that had ever happened to him. 

But what little rational thought he had left just had to show up now, saying things like “Steve, you don’t even _ know _ this guy...or his  _ name, _ ” and “You found his hobo ass on a subway for fucks sake.” Steve wasn’t even sure if this guy spoke English. Or if he spoke at all. His only language seemed to be intense eye contact and various animalistic grunts. Which was of course, something that Steve was finding out totally did it for him, as of this precise moment. Should he like, ask for his name? Give his own? 

Before he could even contemplate struggling for words, the elevator lurched to a stop. The man pulled away, and moved his left hand to clasp the back of Steve’s neck. Steve caught his breath at the absolute dominance in the gesture. He was turned bodily and guided out of the elevator by the hand on his hip and one on his neck, marching him down a dimly lit hallway. Steve gets his feet under him, each step setting off a new dribble of precum from his dick, he was sure.  Abruptly he was turned to the left and stopped in front of a door with an upside down three hanging on it. The hand on his hip reached out for the doorknob and opened the door with a push. It immediately returned to his hip, and pressed him into the apartment. Now would have been a good time for more warning bells in Steve’s mind to go off. But they didn’t. He was too far gone in his own pleasure, positive that the hands on him were the only thing holding him up at this point. There was only one thing on his mind now, and that was finding a bed and getting fucked into it spectacularly. And he was so close, he could almost taste it. He hoped to be tasting this guy’s dick by the time all was said and done, but he wasn’t the one in control of whatever was going on right now. And he liked it that way.

The man behind him kicked the door closed and began to toe off his shoes in the entryway. Odd, but now Steve wondered if he ought to do the same. But he hadn’t been given the order, and he was reasonably sure he had been following all the right cues so far. So he waited. And he was right. The man pushed him forward again, guiding him down another, narrower, hallway and into a bedroom. Well, a room with a bed and not much else, so a bedroom in the loosest sense. The mattress was on the floor and unmade, but it wasn’t the worst thing Steve had ever slept on, not by a long shot. The man behind him still hadn’t said a word. Just kept guiding him with unyielding hands. Hands that were now pushing him down to kneel onto the edge of the rumpled bed. He went without resistance. He wasn’t sure it was possible to get any more aroused than he already was, but this man seemed determined to prove him wrong in all kinds of ways today. 

The hand on his right hip moved to the middle of his back, in almost a caress. And then it shoved him. Hard. Steve collapsed into the mattress and braced himself on his elbows, letting out a small gasp at the shift of the small egg inside him. He dropped his head and looked behind him through his spread thighs. The man was still standing behind him, stance wide and hands hiding back in his jacket pockets.  _ Oh no _ , Steve thought, just as he felt the device inside of him edge up to eleven. Fuuuck. He couldn’t even be embarrassed about the state of his pants at this point. And the high pitch whine he released into his hands seemed to spur the stranger into action again. One hand returned to Steve’s back and pressed him down until his chest was flush against the mattress. His face was buried in the sheets when he took his next deep breath. He could smell the man behind him on them, hell, could practically taste him. The thought made his mouth water. But he stayed where he was, no matter how much he wanted to turn around and choke himself on this man’s dick to see if he tasted as good as he smelled. He was set on being a good boy. For now. 

Steve could feel the other hand snaking around to the front of his pants, and he sucked in a breath. God, those fucking  hands were going to be the death of him. The man cupped his leaking cock through his damp pants and dragged his palm up, trailing his fingers up the length of it and stopping at the button. And suddenly the hand at his back was pushing into him harder than before and the one on his pants just...ripped them open, popping the button off and forcing the zipper open.  _ Okay. _ Okay, so that’s how this was gonna go. He was down, so down. He didn’t know when he had started making little pleading noises, but he could probably guess. His breath was coming in little short gasps and he could only pray he wouldn’t have an asthma attack in the middle of the best sex he’d ever had. And his pants weren’t even off yet. 

The man leaned over him, blanketing his entire body and putting his mouth next to Steve’s ear. He could feel his long hair brush over his neck and his breath passing over his cheek. Steve whimpered in the least unmanly fashion any could ever possibly whimper in, feeling the man’s hard length press against his ass. He chuckled darkly in Steve’s ear and then seemed to hesitate, hovering briefly. And then, with a gravely voice he said one word: “Good?”

Steve could hear the question in it, and any misgivings he might have had evaporated with that one word. He could stop this at any time. His whole body relaxed, uncoiling tension he didn’t recall holding, and he gasped out a desperate little “Yeah.”

As he pulled back, the man fisted his jacket right between his shoulder blades and yanked hard. He pulled Steve up by the jacket, pulling it down his arms and off him like it had personally offended him. His left hand had not been idle, working Steve’s pants down with force. The right hand threw the jacket and returned to fist the collar of his shirt. Steve knew where this was headed and he couldn’t be bothered to care.  _ I can just buy new ones,  _ he thought as the fucking sex god straight up ripped his shirt off of him, buttons popping off and skittering across the floor as they went. Steve was promptly pushed back down, knees spread and almost naked. Scratch that. He could hear the faint tearing sound his briefs made as they were torn down the side by two strong hands. Okay, he was clearly not getting out of here in the same outfit he came in with. 

With that, he was naked. On the bed of a stranger. With a sex toy in his ass. Did he mention that it was his lucky day? Speaking of his ass, there were now two hands on it, gripping both cheeks and gently spreading them. Steve felt cold air on his hole. He could feel it twitch under the man’s gaze. The lube he had used earlier that morning was still slick inside of him and slowly emerging from his twitching asshole. A thumb ran up his crack, pushing the escaping slick back into his hole. He was almost crying by this point. He couldn’t get a read on this guy, one minute he was literally ripping off Steve’s clothes and the next he was gently pushing his thumb in and out of him, like he could do it for hours. Just as he thought that, two fingers pushed into him greedily, applying pressure to the toy and causing his whole body to twitch and rock back into them. He fisted the sheet beneath him and groaned loudly. He turned his head to the right to drag in a gulp of air and looked back. Fuck. The man behind him was a vision, looking intently at his ass, at him, like he was water in a desert. No one had ever,  _ ever _ , looked at him like that. 

As he looked back, the man took his hands away and Steve whined in protest. He looked up and met Steve’s eyes with his own concerned gaze, and then he fucking grinned at him, wide and knowing. He reached behind him, combing his shaggy hair back into a small ponytail and securing it with a band from his wrist. Steve couldn’t close his mouth. This guy had just...stopped fingering him to pull his fucking hair back? And with not even a lick of concern for the lube still coating two of his fingers. Steve couldn’t decide if that was hot or disgusting. Apparently his dick had no such qualms, as it twitched defiantly between his legs and dripped onto the bed beneath him. 

The man started to shrug off his coat before he stopped, put his hand into his pocket, and pulled out Steve’s newest nemesis. He finished shrugging off his coat, leaving him in the dingy red shirt that barely contained the broad chest beneath it. Steve watched to see what he would do with the remote in his hand. He held it up and raised an eyebrow at Steve, taunting him with the possibility. His other hand made its way back to Steve’s ass, those two fingers diving in again, making themselves at home as if they’d never left. Those fingers went right back to pushing on the toy, and by extension, Steve’s prostate. He was a begging mess by now, releasing soft little pleas into the sheets and riding the fingers inside him. 

“M..More..” he begged, unsure if the word was even understandable by the time he got it out.

He heard the chuckle behind him before he felt the shock that jolted through every nerve ending in his body. That bastard! He pushed the fucking button on the remote, which was not exactly the kind of “more” Steve had meant. The remote clattered to the ground after that and Steve felt another hand grasp his left thigh and pull his leg wider. He complied, spreading his legs and arching his back further. The fingers sunk in deeper, rolling the little toy along his inner walls and making him choke on his own spit. If this guy didn’t hurry the fuck up and get to it, this was gonna be over real soon. 

The guy must have been a mind reader, because he pulled out his fingers at that moment, dragging the little device out with them. He chucked it off in the same direction as the remote, still vibrating like crazy and covered in lube. Steve wasn’t even mad, it was cheap and even if it hadn’t been, it would've been worth it. And then the fingers were back, and this time there were three of them, thick and working into him. They pressed in easy, widening his already loose hole and just missing his prostate. That was on purpose, he was sure of it. They pushed in, each thrust harder than the last, until Steve wasn’t rocking his body on his own anymore, it was being done for him. By this guy. With one hand. Jesus, Steve knew he wasn’t exactly heavy, but this guy was manhandling him with one hand. In his ass.

Steve had been on the edge for so long now, he was desperate, but he still knew his role. He could beg, plead, and cry, but he could not demand, that wouldn’t end well just now and he knew it. He looked back again, trying to gauge the best way to get a dick in his ass in the least amount of time possible. And promptly lost all trains of thought going too or from the station. It seemed that this guy had some sort of sixth sense for when Steve was looking at him, because he quickly looked up and locked his eyes onto Steve’s. A few lengths of hair had come loose from the haphazard ponytail, framing his face and occasionally sticking to it. He was glistening, hot at Steve’s back and he seemed to notice it too. He stopped his movements, leaving Steve bereft and waiting for his next move. He didn’t have to wait long. The asshole smirked again, one side of his tempting mouth pulling up at the corner, and reached an arm over his head to grip the collar of his shirt. The red henley was pulled over his head in a manner that shouldn’t have been sexual, but still felt like a striptease. This guy was good. Did he practice picking up strangers on the subway or something? 

Steve stopped thinking for a blissful few seconds as he took in the sight of not-a-hobo guy shirtless. The groan he released was long and wanton and completely involuntary. This guy was walking sex, no two ways about it. Tan all over and muscled like he got paid for it. Which, Steve guessed he did, seeing the silver tags fall loose from the shirt over his head and come to rest between hands down the best pair of pecs Steve had ever seen in his life. After throwing the shirt in the vague direction of a hamper, he reached down with one hand to unbutton his low hanging jeans, putting the other on Steve’s bony hip for balance. His pants didn’t even get halfway down his thighs before he stopped and just let them...hang there, waistband riding below his ass and fly loosely open. It took every brain cell Steve had left to process what he was seeing. First, the guy had been on an early morning subway and going commando the whole time. Second, ho.ly. Shit. Steve was ambitious and had pride in spades, but the monster this guy was hiding in his loose jeans was about to give him a run for his money. 

Seeing the slightly widened state of Steve’s eyes, the man suddenly looked a little less sure of himself. He wrapped the hand that wasn’t on Steve’s hip around himself, barely able to touch his own fingers together and grunted the only word that seemed to be in his vocabulary, “Good”? It was said with just a smidge of uncertainty, and Steve couldn’t believe that this guy, this walking wet dream, had the audacity to hold the world’s most tempting cock in his fist and ask if it was “good” in the fucking gruffest yet oddly cute voice known to man. If he didn’t get that thing in him right fucking now, he was going to be the first person in the known world to die from lack of a dick. Steve couldn’t hold himself back, he just started combining various iterations of the words “yes”, “please”, and “good, so good”.

And the swaggering confidence of a few minutes ago was back full force, causing the man to start slowly stroking his own cock, coaxing out globs of moisture as he went faster. His other hand covered Steve’s right ass cheek, using his thumb to pull at the edges of his swollen little hole. He could feel his own hole twitch under the pad of his tumb. The digit pushed in just a little, barely even stretching the rim before pulling out again. He did it again. And again, until Steve let out a little sob, tears soaking into the bedsheets. He was wrecked, he needed to come, now. But he knew he wasn’t allowed. He was supposed to hold it until he got permission. This whole surreal experience wasn’t meant to culminate in orgasam with his ass spasming around just fingers, he was positive. 

“Just...oh god, just..please” he sobbed. The thumb retreated a bit, pulling his rim wide, and he was ready, he promised, he needed that whole goddamn cock, right now. So he was surprised when what he felt on his asshole next wasn’t the blunt, sticky, head of a cock, but the wetter sensation of a tongue. Oh god. Oh fuck. This guy had bent over while stroking his own dick with an almost brutal amount of force, and stuck his tongue in Steve’s ass. Could he be any more perfect? Steve wasn’t exactly sure what god to thank for this kind of thing, but he’d be sure to build a temple in their name when he could walk again. If he could walk again. 

The tongue inside him pushed deeper, pulling out to catch on the abused rim, before delving deeper again. Shit. He was messy. Saliva dripped down his taint to his balls and mixed with the lube already in his ass. Steve could feel the stubble on that frankly impossible jawline rub against the inside of his sensitive cheeks. Fuck, this guy was a messy ass eater. His thumb pulled in and out alongside his tongue, working the little hole wider and wider. He could come like this, he really really could. But he wouldn’t. Not unless he was told to. Maybe another time he would ask if he could come just riding this guy’s perfect fucking face. If there was another time. He put his head between his hands, pressing his forehead into the bed and clasping his own hair to keep himself under control. He tried to calm his breathing, but it just kept coming out in more and more desperate gasps. And then he made the fatal mistake of opening his eyes, and getting a clear view through his own spread legs of the fucking monster this dude was stroking ruthlessly. It was shiny with precum and an angry shade of purplish red. The vein standing out thickly on the bottom of it made his mouth water when it peeked out between brutal strokes. And the sound, the fucking sound of it. The wet sound coming faster and faster as that relentless fist flew over it. Fuck. He looked so close already.

It occurred to him that this guy might actually not have gotten the message when he had begged for his fucking monster dick earlier. See, what he meant was “fuck yes, put that inside me now”, and what he’s afraid this guy may have heard was “sure, you can bring the unholy beast while you get me off on your tongue”, which was not what he said. Not at all. He didn’t know how to make it any clearer, but he could try.

“Y..your...hnnng...your fucking cock…please, oh god, please now. Riight now.” 

Everything stopped. The hand on the dick in front of him, the tongue in his ass, and the abortive little thrusts he had been making to try and get himself farther onto that tongue. Shit. He’d done it wrong. He’d done fucked up. He was about to start begging again, for the man not to go, not to leave, to do anything but that. But then he felt the mattress shift beneath him and watched the knees behind him shuffle closer. The unholy cock of dreams disappeared from view, only to be felt against his empty hole, its head just resting on it. Both hands were now on his ass pulling him wide and exposing his poor slick asshole. And there came that one little word again. “Good?” he heard from behind him, even more hesitant than last time. For fucks sake. 

“Yes, god. Fuck yes. Good, good, very good.” He almost didn’t make it to the end of the last affirmation before he was being impaled with the largest dick he had ever had the pleasure of taking. Slowly, oh so slowly. This guy was sure taking his sweet fucking time...Oh fuck could he feel that. His cock was everywhere, stretching his rim to its absolute limit and then some. Steve had never taken anything this big before, hadn’t even tried. But fuck, he really should have tried this sooner. This was slow torture, waiting inch by desperate inch for him to bottom out. Fuck, this cock was never ending. Finally, one eternity later, he felt the man stop, his entire length now inside Steve’s tight, tiny ass. It was so hot, and he couldn’t help the little bit of clenching his asshole did around it. The fingers on his left hip dug in hard enough to leave bruises and the man above him let out a deep grunt. He moved his palm up from Steve’s hip to his ribs, slowly stroking from hipbone to arm and back. He was trying to get Steve to relax. Shit. That was just too cute, so Steve moved, pulling himself forward just a little before slamming back as hard as he could in his position. Yeah, he had something to prove, all right? And it was that he could take this fucking dick like a goddamn champion. 

The strangled little yelp the man let out above him was deeply satisfying, but not as satisfying as the hand on his side immediately reattaching to his hip and clutching on for dear life. And then he pulled out, letting the rim of Steve’s hole flutter teasingly around the head of his dick for a moment, before yanking Steve’s hips back and slamming his hips forward all in the same motion, fucking into him hard and fast. And then doing it again, setting a hard and fast pace that had Steve hanging on for dear life. His mouth hung open, releasing little sharp cries with every earth shattering stroke. With every thrust, Steve would end up a few inches further up the bed, and about every third thrust he would be reeled in, hard. Holy shit. This was definitely the most thorough fuck he’d ever had in his life. This was not going to last long, for him or the man inside him, he could tell. 

The thrusts became shorter, but had no less force behind them, and then he felt the man’s left hand slide from his bruising hip to the middle of his back. And push. He let himself fall, elbows giving was and turning his head to the side for air. The angle changed. Now, that huge cock was barreling directly into his prostate with every thrust, tightening his grip and the sheets so much that he was pretty sure he was going to end up leaving permanent holes in them. Aside from the frankly obscene sound of flesh against flesh, all that could be heard was the faint clink of dog tags with every heavy thrust. He found he was incapable of sound at all now, just struggling to get air into his lungs in a reasonable fashion and trying not to drool an unseemly amount. He was so close, he could feel his orgasm sneaking up on him whether he wanted it to or not. He was usually better at this, he’d had a bit of practice. But apparently, when it came to random subway guy, all bets were off. Steve was shit at betting anyway. He could feel the hips slamming into his start to stutter in their unrelenting pace, signaling he wasn’t the only one at the end of his leash. 

As it turned out, the guy knew two words, as he proved when he ordered Steve to “Come” in a smooth command, one that sounded well used. Boy did Steve come too. One moment he was panting for breathe and the next all the air he’d managed to get into his lungs was swept out with the force of it. His entire body tensed from his curled toes to his head. His eyes went wide along with his mouth, soundless in its scream. And Steve’s dick got hit the hardest, pulsing out stripes of cum onto the bed below, each one wringing a tiny plaintive “uh” from his throat. The muscles clamping down hard on the cock in him caused it to go off inside of him, pumping him full to bursting with thick streams of semen. He could feel it start to dribble out of him and down his spread thighs, causing his dick to give and abortive little twitch and surrender a few drops more cum. The man at his back was still giving tiny thrusts inside him, milking his orgasm and holding Steve’s hips in place while he finished, thoroughly marking his ass. He grunted hard and loud with one last thrust and stayed there, rooted inside of Steve. Steve really didn’t mind all that much.

When he finally released the bruising grip he had on Steve’s hips, they simply collapsed onto the bed. The slide of the still quite large but flaccid shaft from his ass was probably the weirdest feeling of the day, and that was saying something, all things considered. Steve couldn’t care less about the wet spot below him right now. Besides, he didn’t think he could move from this spot, even if he wanted to. The sex god collapsed next to him onto his back, breathing heavily and still with his pants suspended around his thighs. It struck Steve as somehow hot that this dude fucked him so savagely with his pants still around his legs. He figured he should say something, anything, but only after he caught his breath. He tried to think of something, anything to say to break the weird tension that filled the silence now that the sexual tension had been dealt with. He was coming up blank, but for some reason he opened his mouth anyway.

“Uh...I’m Steve?” he said, raising his hand from the bend in a failed attempt at a wave. 

He was sure it would have been better if he hadn’t just been fucked within an inch of his life. The man turned his head to the left and opened his eyes to stare at Steve. His breath caught in his throat. This guy was just not fair. Build like a brick shithouse and yet somehow in possession of the softest grey eyes and obscenely plush pink lips. He had his eyebrows raised at Steve above the piercing stare, looking almost like he wanted to laugh. Steve was about to try and figure out how to walk so he could gather up whatever was left of his clothes and escape before he lost any more of his dignity. He would crawl if he had to, dammit, just to avoid being laughed at by this man. But just as he was about to actually panic, he heard a soft little snort. 

“Bucky. I’m Bucky.” he said with a wry grin aimed at the ceiling, his eyes sliding shut. 

“Uh...nice to meet you…” Steve replied, absolutely positive he sounded like an idiot now. 

The man just snorted comically again and lifted a hand up to pull out his hair tie and put it back around his wrist. He kicked the rest of the way out of his pants and then settled into stillness. There was a smile still on his face and his eyes were closed. 

Steve thought that this was probably his cue to leave, dreading the absolutely disastrous train ride back to Brooklyn he had ahead of him. He was about to try and put his arms underneath himself when the man...Bucky reached down with his left arm over the side of the mattress and pulled a blanket up from the floor. In one graceful move he rolled towards Steve, threw his arm and the blanket over him, and pulled Steve’s whole body into his chest and threw a heavy thigh over him for good measure. 

Apparently he wasn’t going anywhere just yet. That was strangely alright with him.

  
  
  
  



	2. Steve's Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, ya'll keep asking for this so here it is. I kinda sorta have a vague plan from here for plot (I know, I said pwp, and here we are), but ask hearteyesmonroe more about that...thatotherfiend has nothing to do with this right here, I am in no way responsible.

When Steve came to, he was naked. He doesn’t sleep naked. And these aren’t his sheets. He doesn’t think anything could be more uncomfortable than the taste of his own stale breath, but then he tries to move.  _ Okay, yeah, no moving, _ he thought. The throbbing pain that shoots up his back reminds him of just where he is. 

In some random guys apartment. 

On his dubiously clean…bed? Could he really call a mattress on the floor a bed? God, what was he even thinking. He needs to get out of here. Now would be a great time for rational Steve to return to the controls, but his mind seems to be holding stubbornly onto its sex fogged state. He gives up on moving and settles for trying to figure out what time it is. Judging by the light inching towards the mattress from the bare window in front of him, it’s edging towards evening. Evening…. _ SHIT!  _ he thinks. Steve remembers the interview he was supposed to be at earlier and scrambles to get up, ignoring the discomfort in every move. He’s standing in the middle of a disaster area. There are clothes everywhere, shoes vaguely stacked at the end of the bed…mattress, and books, books on every clear spot, from the window sill to the overburdened nightstand. The nightstand is the only piece of actual furniture in the room as far as Steve can tell. 

And he doesn’t have time for this! He vaguely remembers having put on new corduroy pants for the interview, but the memory of what actually happened to his clothes came swiftly on the tail of that thought. Ruined. Every last stitch. Honestly, if the sex hadn’t been so completely mind blowing…he’d be angry. 

Steve throws a more thorough glance around the room and picks up what resembles sweat pants, black, but with a drawstring. He didn’t have the luxury of caring if they were clean. He had to go beg profusely and make up one hell of a story to try to get that interview back. Somehow he doesn’t think telling a potential employer that he missed his interview to have life altering sex with a stranger would go over very well. But given that his interview was at Stark Tower, Steve could hope a playboy like Tony Stark would at least appreciate the story. The pants were way too long and just way to big in general but picky wasn’t really something he could afford to be right now. He found another piece of clothing on the way to the door, a shirt hopefully, black too. God this guy owned a lot of black. Steve pulls it over his head, noting the holes and the worn collar that almost immediately slides off his shoulder. The shoes are easy to find, being the only ones not in a pile by the mattress. The socks are another matter entirely. Oh well, he _ really _ doesn’t have time for this. He had dropped his messenger bag by the door, so he picks it up as he walks out.  

He’s hit by the smell of breakfast almost immediately. It smells like french toast and bacon. And coffee. God he would kill for coffee right now. But that means actually speaking words to strange mattress lair guy. He doesn’t really have enough dignity to spare for that conversation right now, but the hallway to the front door opens right into the kitchen, if he remembers correctly. Shit. And Steve is pretty much stealing this guy’s clothes right now. It’s not like he’s gonna…what? Return them? Get the guys number to set up a hostage exchange? Yeah, no. If he has to so much as make eye contact, he might vomit. Or melt into the floor. He takes a deep breath and then all but runs down the hallway and to the door. It’s just within reach when he hears it. 

 

A sleep softened brooklyn drawl, “Hey, did ya wa-“.

 

“Nope. Uh…gotta…” and then Steve is out the door, almost slamming it behind him when he goes. The little upside down three sways merrily on it remaining screw.

 

The comforting rumble of a late afternoon train is underneath him before he takes a deep breath, and then another, to sort out what he’s just done. He had blown off a promising job interview with one of the most influential people and corporations of the century. For sex. Sex with a stranger whom he met on a train. Whose name he still doesn’t know. Dangerous sex. Steve can’t remember the last time he had sex without a condom, but the magnitude of his fuck up is hitting him all at once. He has to email the company. Figure out…something to say, anything. Call the clinic. Set up an STI test. Find money for that. Hell, find money for rent, food, internet, and everything else while he’s at it. He’s been relying on his savings for two months now, ever since the start-up he was doing graphics and advertising for had went under. It was a nice paycheck while it lasted, but he had maybe a months’ worth of expenses left and that was stretching it. How could he have been so stupid? He might have fucked up his entire life for a few hours and a good time. A really good time.  _ Okay, you can stop thinking about the sex at anytime now _ , he told himself. But it was excellent sex, probably even the best sex Steve can ever remember having.  _ Shut. Up.  _

It’s almost 4 o'clock by the time he trudges up the three flights of stairs to his front door. What he finds there is not what he expected. He didn’t really expect to find anything at his apartment, honestly. But sitting next to his apartment with her ankles crossed is a redhead in slacks and a blazer, which probably cost as much as he pays in rent, eating a…cake pop? On the floor next to her is a drink carrier sporting the logo of his least favorite coffee shop. He could kiss this woman, but instead he just sighs and says,

 

“Nat, how long have you been here?”

 

He can see her eyes travel from his face, to the oversized t-shirt hanging off his collar bones to the drawstring valiantly holding up the sweat pants that are pooling at his feet. She just quirks one eyebrow and proceeds to stand up gracefully, drink carrier in one hand and cake pop in the other. 

 

“Forever. The coffee’s probably cold. I texted, you didn’t answer” she says with a clipped tone as she makes her way into his now unlocked apartment before him. She heads straight for the kitchen, setting down the coffee and tossing the now empty stick from her cake pop. Nat sits down at the kitchen table, every inch of her body language saying she was waiting for an explanation. Impatiently. 

Steve doesn’t even know where to begin. He knows what this looks like, and it’s so much worse than it looks. Setting down his bag with a heavy thump, he slumps into a chair opposite of her and folds his head into his hands.

“Nat. I fucked up.”

Instantly her face changes from its hard mask to a softer expression of worry. She moves into the seat next to him and tentatively touches the hand blocking his face.

“Oh shush, I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that. Just..tell me what happened. And start at the beginning.”

He lets his hands slide down from his face to look at her, despair written on his face. He was holding it together on the train ride home, but the true magnitude of his fuck up hadn’t hit him until just now. He takes a deep breath and fights back panic. He can feel it welling up in his gut and now is so not the time for crying or panicking. 

“I...I, the interview...I missed it.” And that’s all he manages to choke out before he’s taking deep breaths in through his nose.

“Okay. Okay. That’s okay… And, uh, where did your..clothes go..?” Nat says. This probably isn’t the most important part of this whole story, and Steve can see the bewilderment in her eyes. This is clearly not the outfit she helped Steve pick out the night before. Steve’s almost manic laughter is not the reaction she expects, and she seems so startled by the abrupt change in his demeanor that she moves her hand and leans away from him.

“I , oh god you won’t believe me, even if I tell you,” he says between gasping laughs. “The train, there was this guy right, and I mean, it’s all your boyfriend's fault really. Oh god, that stupid vibrator, what was I even  _ thinking?!  _ And I just….I just went with it? For once in my life, I went with it. And look what happened!” Steve is almost frantic now, not stopping for air or coherency. He takes a deep breath, and just as he can tell Natasha is about to interject, he starts up again. “I mean so there I am, regretting my life choices and my choice in friends, did I mention your boyfriend is an asshole? Yeah, so I’m on the train, with a vibrator, going to the interview, right? And then this guy shows up and he’s like...oh my god he’s just...filthy, but dear god is he working it. And worse, he knows, Nat, he fucking knows I swear to god. Next thing I know I’m ass up in front of this guy in some ghetto ass apartment getting what I’m pretty sure was a lobotomy by dick in scientific terms. Like, yeah. . . Oh. And I guess I lost my clothes...and my book...and my vibrator. Shit.” And then he just stops.

Nat waits for a few moments, probably waiting for him to continue. But Steve isn’t about to speak again. She looks...stunned. Absolutely speechless. But she can’t just leave him here, right?  Steve is about ready to go into another breathing fit when she puts her hand back on his, likely trying to be comforting, and says “So, let me get this straight. You got on the train, to go to your interview, with a vibrator...because...Clint told you to? By the way, he is so not my boyfriend, you asshole, he’s my partner. And then you...got fucked by a hobo? Who...stole your clothes?  Am I getting this right?” She’s trying here, he can see that, but this is just so...very un-Steve like even he’s not surprised that she’s having difficulty wrapping her mind around it. Hell, he’s having trouble reconciling the Steve of this morning with the Steve he feels like now. Like he had a moment of insanity, like he was possessed by some other, more outgoing and riskier Steve. 

 

He needs a shower, he decides. Standing abruptly, he sheds Nat’s concerned hands and heads for the bathroom. He spends more time than he probably should inspecting the darkening bruises on his hips and the still tender feel of his ass. But eventually he has to step back into real life, so he steps out of the lukewarm spray and pulls on some of his own sleep pants and a sweater he stole from Nat and cautiously steps out his bedroom door. Nat was exactly where he knew she would be, on the couch. She’s already brought his messenger bag over and, from the smell permeating the apartment, made his favorite tea. Netflix is also loading the fourth episode of Jessica Jones. She knows him so well. Steve moves slowly over to the couch, and tucks his feet under him as he sits. He’s clasping the warm cup of tea in his hand with near brutality, if he’d have had the strength, he might have broken it.  Calmer now than he was an hour ago, Steve sips at his tea and avoids Nat’s eyes for as long as possible in favor of admiring how Jessica Jones maintains such an artfully dishevelled state of not giving a single fuck and still looks good doing it. He gets through his cup of tea and almost through the episode before he pulls his bag onto the couch and pulls out his laptop. The moment of truth is upon him. 

Steve spends the entirety of the boot process dreading the email, What if they already emailed him? Probably telling him not to bother begging or coming back? He doesn’t know if it would be better or worse to have no email at all. Like they didn’t even care if he showed up or not. His inbox is glowing in front of him, 12 unread messages, 11 from social networks and promotions and 1 from Stark Industries. But it was time stamped for for seven forty two that morning. Almost 20 minutes before his interview. He clicks it open, a sense of foreboding settles in his stomach. 

Dear Mr. Rogers,

We are terribly sorry to inform you on such short notice that your interview has been rescheduled to Wednesday, the 24th, at 8am due to unforeseen circumstances. Currently, two thirds of your interview team has excused themselves early this morning due to illness. We regret any inconvenience this has caused you. We look forward to seeing you and hope you are well.

 

Sincerely,

Pepper Potts

CEO, Stark Industries

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos if liked it, comment if you hated it ^.^  
> I guess you can also find me on the tumblr at thatotherfiend


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going places guys, real places, with plot. I promise. There will also be porn...

Steve stares at the email for a solid five minutes, his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide. He just...he wasn’t this lucky, he couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. He turns to Nat with the same shocked expression, rotating his laptop so she can see what has to be some sort of mistake. Her face morphs from curiosity to shock to pleasure as she reads the short paragraph. Steve understands the feeling.

“So...I guess I still might have a job. Maybe” he says with surprise tinging his words. He feels a weight lift from his shoulders, knowing that he’s still got a chance to not be destitute and homeless in a few months. And then he remembers the appointment he has to make at the clinic and some of that relief dissipates. As he turns his laptop back towards himself his face falls. Nat notices, of course she does.

“Steve, what’s wrong? This is good news…” she says, her voice trailing off.

His face falls even further at the thought of telling Nat just what he has to do now, and more importantly, why. Steve has to find the nearest public health clinic, and hope they have the time, and also hope they schedule online because there’s no way he’s actually calling someone. He doesn’t even order pizza over the phone for fuck sake. Pushing his laptop farther down towards his knees, indicating that Nat should just...watch, he types in the url for the free clinic 12 blocks away. He’s gotten pretty familiar with the one closer to his apartment, with his laundry list of health issues, but this is one kind of appointment he’s never had to make and he’d rather go where there’s less of a chance of anyone he knows seeing him. As he clicks the link for “Free STI Testing” he hears Nat suck in a deep breath. She has moved closer to see his screen, like he had wanted her to. It was easier to show her than to say the words out loud. He still hasn’t said them.

“Oh Stevie…” she says in a broken voice. “Do you think...you…?”

“I dunno Nat. I don’t even….I don’t even know his name, so I mean, it’s possible?” he says with in a small voice. “But I gotta find out, right?”

“Stevie, what were you thinking?” there’s no judgement in her voice, but he can tell she’s confused. He’s never let this happen before. Not the sex part, but the whole vigorous fucking without a condom thing. Even when he’s been questionably sober, he’s always put safety first. And Nat knows that.

“I wasn’t Nat, I really wasn’t even...ya know, thinking.” Not that thinking was really possible with a dick like that so far up your ass you can taste it, says a small voice in the back of his mind. Dear god. There’s something wrong with his brain, he knows it. He can’t be scheduling an STI test and also wishing he could do it all again at the same time, he can’t. His brain must be broken. Probably by dick, his mind suggests, unhelpfully.

“Well, I mean, you can’t go back and...undo it, so if you want me to...you know, go with you or something, I will.”

“Nat, I can’t ask you to do that. The only opening here is Monday morning, and I know you’ve got work. And Clint would ask questions and I just...I really don’t want anyone else to know how bad I fucked this up…”

“Steve, I’m very good at my job, I can get an hour or two of free time with no one the wiser...especially Clint. He’s oblivious.” If he didn’t know her better he’d say there’s fondness in her tone. “Honey, if you want me there, I’m there, everything else be damned. That’s what best friends are for.”

“Yeah..I guess, yeah. I want you there. I don’t know how to do this on my own.” He know he sounds small and not at all like the grown man he is.

She grabs his hand and gives it a small squeeze. He closes his laptop and forgets about all the things he should be worrying about in favor of watching Jessica beat the shit out of some more assholes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Monday morning dawns, Steve hasn’t stepped out of his comfy outfit since he put it on on Friday. It’s an hour before his appointment and the panic he fought off before the weekend has slowly been growing in the pit of his stomach. Nat isn’t here yet. He knows when she makes a promise she keeps it, but his mind keeps making up worse and worse scenarios, from her boss firing her to her having an accident on the way to his house. All of which are very unlikely because Nat is half of the best detective duo in the precinct and her boss wouldn’t dream of firing her and also because Nat takes the subway, so the likelyhood of her being in a traffic accident is pretty slim.

Just as he starts to imagine the horrific phone call he could be getting any minute, there’s a knock on his door. And then it’s opening. He takes a relieved breath. Only Nat would have that kind of callous disregard for his privacy. She sweeps in like a storm, flinging her raincoat onto the rack, shaking her sleek ponytail, and tossing her handbag onto the table by the door. Her face is almost as stormy as the weather outside, but then she takes one look at him and frowns even more.

“What the hell are you wearing? We have to leave, like right now. Go get dressed.”

And her words are just the push he needed. He wasn’t even sure he was going to show up to his appointment today, hoping that if he just...ignored the problem long enough, it would go away. Stupid, and risky, but he had talked himself around in circles, thinking about what the odds actually were. It was just one time. And if he isn’t feeling ill from anything other than abject panic, maybe luck is still on his side? It doesn’t matter if he’s nervous, or nauseous, or panicked though, because Nat’s here now and she’s not going to let him go through this alone. Sliding off his sweatpants as he rushes to the bathroom, he dunks his hair under the bathtub faucet and quickly shampoos it. He’ll be damned if he shows up looking as bad as he feels. He throws a towel over his wet hair and pulling on a pair of actual pants. His chinos were probably too nice for a public clinic, but they were the first thing he grabbed. Then he threw on a blue button up with little penguins on it after pulling his dirty t-shirt over his head and tossing it into his hamper. A glob of texturizer and a comb later and he is putting his shoes on in front of the couch Nat is sitting on, almost ready to go. She has “impatient waiting” down to an art.

“Okay. I think I’m ready. Probably.”

She raises one eyebrow at him, quizzically, but doesn’t comment. Instead she marches to the door, swinging on her coat and snagging her purse on the way out. She threw a look back at him that seemed to say ‘are you coming or what’?

He follows her out the door, locking it behind him. They walk towards the subway station, Nat with a purposeful determined gait and Steve...not so much, but he moving, and that's what counts. The sky is covered in dull grey clouds and the air is full of a sort of half-assed drizzle that’s neither rain nor completely dry. People all around them are bustling to their jobs, umbrellas puffed up and faces turned down towards the sidewalk. Descending the stairs into the station makes his mind draw disturbing parallels between reality and hell. And honestly, to Steve, this is hell. The station is dim and damp and full of pressing bodies this early in the morning. He can feel his lungs start to struggle to take in air, and he’s wondering if this asthma or anxiety. Probably both, his mind suggests. Just then Nat reaches back and takes his hand, rubbing her thumb calmingly over the top of his hand. She’s also using her grip to drag him towards the train doors, but the effort at comfort is appreciated and effective nonetheless. They squeeze onto the train just as the doors are closing, Nat pressing into his side. He’s suddenly remembering his last particularly eventful train ride and every part of him tenses a little. Luckily their stop isn’t too far up the tracks. He closes his eyes and waits for the movement of the train to lull him back to calmness.

Eventually the train comes to a halt and Nat is pulling on his hand again, leading him out of the train car and towards the stairs. She’s avoiding people and parting the crowd like it’s second nature and Steve can’t help but follow her. Then they’re breaking into open air and she’s walking almost too fast for him to keep up. He doesn’t know if she senses his hesitance but she turns to throw a “We’re gonna be late, hurry up” over her shoulder anyway. His watch reveals that she’s right, as always. It’s almost 8:20, they have ten minutes to get the two blocks from the station to the clinic. At the pace Nat is dragging them, they’ll have plenty of time.

The clinic is just a door between two other buildings, dreary and grey like all the others in the city this morning. But when Nat opens the door and pulls him inside, the interior is a soft beige with green accents. The decor is a bit outdated and the flowers are fake and covered in dust, but the waiting room is quiet aside from the persistent tick of the analog clock above the window of the reception desk. There’s a woman with a toddler writhing on her lap who is absently sticking the crayons out of his package into his nose and then pulling him back out to stick into his mouth. An older man pulls a kleenex out of the box in his hand, blows his nose, and stuffs the tissue into his pocket with what looks to be twenty or thirty others. Everyone else is unremarkable, either reading outdated magazines or staring blankly into space. Nat drags him to the window and tells the woman popping her gum absurdly that “Steve Rogers is here for his 8:30 appointment.”

The receptionist looks towards her screen and distractedly types for a few moments. And then says as loudly as possible,

“For the STI panel?”

Steve would have gladly died right then and there. The waiting room goes even more silent, and he can feel their eyes on the back of his head. The look that Nat gives the receptionist should have peeled skin from bone. The receptionist doesn’t even flinch. Steve just wants to go home, he’d rather die horribly and covered in open sores than go sit in the waiting room behind him, full of judgemental and curious stares. But Nat takes the clipboard the woman is handing him and marches back toward some empty seats under an abstract watercolor print. He presses his hands together between his knees to stop them from shaking. She’s filling out the medical history form next to him, checking boxes and writing her information down under the Emergency Contact section. Nat knows everything about him, has since highschool when she was the only one who would talk to him. He doesn’t know what he’d do without her.

When she stands to go give the clipboard back to the receptionist, she somehow manages to turn a soul-quelling glare to every single individual in the waiting room. Their eyes quickly turn away, some even flushing slightly with shame to be caught being so nosey. Her low black heels clack as she returns and sits next to him, exuding such an intense aura of Fuck Off that even Steve is hesitant to talk.

“Soo...how’d you get off work?” he asks anyway, more perturbed by the silence than Nat’s bad mood. She looks over to him and her demeanor softens just a little.

“Oh, I just said it was girl stuff, the captain said I could take the whole day if I needed it after that. And Clint didn’t even question it, just made that face all dudes make when they think about ‘girl stuff’.” Nat is devious, but even he was impressed. She smiles a little to herself at her own genius, and then looks a bit more somber as she asks “Steve..I know you might not wanna talk about it but, you gotta know, I’m here for you. If you wanna tell me, that is.”

“I...Nat. I just sort of, did it. I don’t know anything else. Really. I don’t know his name, I don’t know what subway station we got off on, I don’t know what he does for a living...hell, I don’t know if he even has a job. He honestly looked...really just bad but in the best kind of way, Nat. And then I just snapped. I’ve been, you know, doing the right thing my whole life, getting the grades, taking the right jobs, saving money. And then suddenly I’m on a train to Stark Tower with a portfolio full of pin-ups and a vibrator in my ass. Again, your boyfriend is the real hero here. Then this guy just...appears, like a massive, grungy vision. And it just felt...right, like I had already let go that much, why not take it a little farther? And so here I am...and so here we are.”

Just as he trails off of his last sentence, a nurse opens the door to the exam rooms and gives a very monotonous “Rogers, Steven.” Nat drags him up and through the door, following the nurse in floral scrubs down a narrow hallway. The lights flicker in the way that fluorescent lights do and the smell of sterilites cuts through the air sharply. The nurse leads them to a door near the end of the hall that’s already open and flips some colored tabs outside the door. She ushers them in and says a perfunctory “they’ll will be with you shortly” and then closes the door. Nat sits on the little stool under the flu shot poster and he jumps up onto the paper covered exam chair with as much dignity as he can muster. He swings his legs to tap his shoes together as they wait in silence. Nat still seems to be processing the words he had said in the waiting room. The wait continues.

“So...did you want to...try and find this guy? I mean, not that you’re like...in love with him or anything, but you know..just in case it’s...positive?” She sounds less and less sure of her words as they come out of her mouth, and Steve smiles to himself ruefully. No, he wasn’t in love, and it wasn’t really him who was supposed to be going around calling people about his test results anyway.

“Nat, I do not want you to use your weird detective voodoo to find my one...afternoon stand. No, just...no. And if it’s...positive. I’ll. I’ll just have to deal with whatever it is. It’s just one more illness to add to the list, like anything else, I guess.”

She looks at him with something that is bordering on pity. Steve tries not to see it. He wonders what look is on his face to put that one on hers. He swears it’s not love he feels when he thinks back to the first time he met the eyes of tall, dark, and handsome, it was just lust. Overwhelming and uncompromising lust. He doesn’t even know the guy, or his name, and he definitely doesn’t believe in love at first sight. Nope.

As if to save him from too much introspection, at that moment a stocky man with curly brunette hair and a lovely set of blue scrubs enters the room, looking so calm it’s almost unsettling.

“Hi, I’m Bruce Banner and I’ll be taking care of you. So, I see here you’re in for a standard panel. Let me just get the basic check-up out of the way and then we’ll get on with it. Shall we?” He opens his arms and pulls on a set of blue gloves from the dispenser on the wall. Approaching Steve with a tongue depressor and that weird thing they stick in people's ears, he tells Steve to open up wide and say “ahhh.”

Steve floats through the appointment in a sort of daze. After Banner takes the swab from his mouth and tells him they should have preliminary results in about a week. Banner leaves the room with his swab in a test tube and Nat is holding his arm as they walk back down the hallway towards reception. No one spares a glance towards them, except one guy at a copy machine who seems to being looking Nat up and down between pages. When they get to reception, the disinterested gum-popper goes to hand him an invoice, but before he can take it Natasha snags it, gives it a cursory glance, and then hands the woman her debit card.

“Nat?! You can’t jus-”

“I can and I will. Steve, you’re my best friend, you’re unemployed, and you’ve been through the ringer. I’m paying and yes, you are accepting my charity and that’s final. Besides, it’s fucking $30. Get over it.”

She has a point. He doesn’t really have $30 dollars to spare until he knows if he gets a job and he never really understood declining charity out of pride. Feeling like there was something wrong with accepting charity just kind of made people look down on people who do accept it, yet elevating those who give it. So Steve doesn’t say anything as Nat signs the receipt, puts it in her pocket, and marches on.

For no reason at all, Steve feels infinitely lighter as he steps outside after Nat. The test is done, and now his only job is to wait. Wait for a piece of paper to tell him just how screwed he is. Nice pun, asshole, says a small voice in his head. He tries to squash it. The ride back to his apartment doesn’t seem as long as it was this morning and even Nat seems less tense the closer they get to his apartment. It isn’t until he’s unlocking his door that he realizes Nat is taking off her coat and toeing off her shoes.

“Nat, you don’t have to-”

“The hell I don’t. Besides, I used the ‘girl stuff” excuse, I can’t just let this whole day go to waste. So what kind of waffles do you want from that place that delivers this goddamn early?”


	4. The Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finally gets to his interview, and it's really not what he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait folks, college is a bitch, as is applying, or preparing to apply for grad school. But here is a chapter. And because I am a bad person and you deserve a hint, I can promise smut in the next chapter ^.^   
> As always, hearteyesmonroe is a force of inspiration and support.   
> Find me, and all my weird shit at thatotherfiend 

It’s well past noon and the remains of the morning waffles are spread over the coffee table. Nat had fallen asleep in the middle of the last episode and Steve had hesitated to wake her. As well as she hides them, Steve can still see the dark circles underneath her eyes. Nat takes her job particularly personally, feeling like every unsolved case was somehow her responsibility. But he would have to wake her soon, even if it was just to ask if she wanted to order dinner in or not. He absently starts picking up the waffle debris and washing the dishes he’s let pile up over the weekend. Washing the dishes turns into washing the floors, and the counters, and starting a load of laundry. By the time Natasha rises from the couch, wrapped in the fleece blanket Steve had draped over her earlier, it’s almost five and the apartment looks like an actual adult lives in it. Maybe.

 

“Hey sleeping beauty, you up for making some food or did you want to order in?” Steve says as he takes the laundry out of the dryer and carries it to his room. 

 

“Hmmm...um, I feel like pasta” she says as she wanders into the kitchen and peers into his fridge. Her eyebrows raise slightly at what she sees. Condiments, a tupperware of ...something, and cranberry juice. “But...I don’t think that’s going to come from in here…” she says sarcastically. 

 

Steve has the good grace to blush. 

 

“I haven’t really had the chance to...uh, groceries yet? And I’m kinda broke, you know…”

 

Nat immediately closes the fridges and goes for her purse. She fishes her phone out of the bottom of it and texts chinese food place she and Clint are likely keeping in business single handedly. And they do delivery by text, the angels. 

“Okay, food is on its way. Tell me about your plans for this whole...interview thing.” She sits back down in her little nest on the couch, patting the cushion next to her.

Steve grabs his portfolio and settles in, nudging his feet under her thighs and sighing a little as he spreads some sketches out onto the clean coffee table. Drawings of planes and pin-up girls, some in color, some just line work, litter the surface quickly. 

“So, with the whole “coming back from a torture cave with a new lease on life” episode of Tony Stark, Stark industries has been expanding into almost every sector of the market that isn’t weapons design. You name it, Tony Stark probably owns part of it. But Stark is just the face, he takes on a hobby, or a side project, and makes it his baby. His...Pepper? I’m not really sure what she is to him, only that she runs the whole thing, top to bottom. And Stark’s most recent baby is the new airline he acquired a few months ago, there was something about it going bankrupt in the news, and he just...swooped in and bought it. Stark is planning on splitting half of it off to be a dedicated luxury line for vacationers. He basically put out an art call for a fleets worth of tail designs. The job has gone unfilled for like, four months. So I just decided, you know “what the hell”. I think I get Tony Stark...sort of. I mean, it's not like the call came with instructions, but I bet a bunch of cookie cutter graphics people came in with a bunch of swooshing abstract designs in primary colors thinking that’s exactly what goes on the tail of a plane or 70. But not on Stark planes I guess? I think he’s looking for something...different, and I don’t know if I have it, but I have to at least try, right?” Steve takes a deep breath after he’s finished and looks away from his drawings and back towards Nat.

 

The look on her face says so many things at once, pride, shock, curiosity, and relief. “Steve, these are great, there’s no way they won’t be blown away.” She leans forward to pick up one of the drawings with a delicate touch. “You worked really hard on these, didn’t you?” Her voice is fond as she looks at one sketch, a bombshell with coveralls tied around her waist and a socket wrench in one hand. 

 

“I..uh, yeah, kinda. Once I started on the first one, the others just...spilled out. It took awhile.” Steve shifts nervously. Nat is really the only person he’s showed unfinished work to, and it still makes him feel a little uncomfortable. 

 

“Okay, so what do you plan to tell them? Why should they pick you, aside from your fabulous art?” 

 

“Um, well I. Shit. I dunno, I’ve got a great work ethic?” he says with a bit of a whine.

 

“Was that a question..?”

 

“Fuck Nat, you know I’m no good at, at boasting about myself. What do they want?”

 

“Calm down, just...be yourself, tell them you love what you do, and you love what they’re trying to do. You’re responsible, punctual, organized, a real model employee. They’ll see that.”

 

Steve stays quiet, staring blankly at the coffee table, until he is jolted out of his reverie by the doorbell. 

 

“Got it!” says Nat as she jumps up and rushed to open the locks. The boy at the door couldn’t have been much more than seventeen, and he about chokes on his tongue when he goes to hand Nat two large bags of take out. Even Steve, gay as he was, could see that Nat looked great even with her lopsided ponytail and sleep smudged eyes. She winks at him and tips him in cash, because she was nice like that. Then she kicks the door closed in his face.

Steve starts putting his portfolio back in order so she’ll have somewhere to set all the food, making sure everything was flat and still presentable. Nat proceeds to set down her bounty, open every container, and stick a pair of chopsticks into each container. She hands the lo mein to Steve and curls up with the orange chicken on her end of the couch. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Steve wakes with a start, patting the covers urgently around him in search of his glasses. He tries not fall asleep with them on, he had crushed his last pair in the fateful Squishing of 2014. As he pushes the black frames onto his face he squints at the alarm clock next to him. The hands tell him it’s...6:29. As if sensing his gaze, the second hand clips through its last second and sets off the hammer, sending a shrill ringing through the room and Steve’s ears. Well, at least he wasn’t late. He climbs out of bed, well, shambles more accurately, and goes into the bathroom. He knows there isn’t any food in the apartment, Nat had taken the last of the chinese food with her on Monday. Secretly, Steve thinks it was because she had ordered pork egg rolls. Neither of them like pork egg rolls. But Steve happens to know someone who does. And it may or may not be Nat’s partner in detecting crime, Clint. Probably Clint’s dog Lucky, too. 

Steve settles for sliding into the outfit he had set out last night, after much agonizing. His hair refuses to sit quite right and he leaves it as it is before he does any more damage. Apparently bed head with a dash of order is what he’s getting. Maybe it’ll be sexy in an hour, who knows. He checks, and double checks his portfolio. His phone is charged and his laptop is nestled close to his emergency external battery. Steve makes it a point to avoid eye contact with the bottom drawer in his nightstand. None of the things in there are coming with him today. He promises himself he’ll get a scone or something when he gets coffee downtown. He’s out the door before the clock says seven.

This train ride towards Stark tower is much more uneventful than his last, but that doesn’t stop him from scanning the crowd every stop. He’s not even sure what he’s looking for, because it certainly isn’t...Okay, Bucky was not that guy’s real name and Steve refused to call him that. One, he was so not telling Nat the guys…stripper name? Nat was talented enough to turn that into an actual ID, and Steve was so not ready for that kind of intervention. Steve can hardly believe he gave out his actual name to a...a subway hookup.

He tries not to think about it for the rest of the train ride. His stomach growls angrily up at him but he chooses to ignore it. He’ll feed it soon enough. This train ride had seemed a lot...shorter last time. And then his brain is kind enough to remind him why. Right, this one wasn’t ending in hardcore stranger sex. He can’t tell if he’s disappointed by that or not, but he tells himself he totally isn’t. 

He still hasn’t stopped surreptitiously checking every person who enters the subway doors, but no beefy homeless dudes with eyes that should be illegal step on. Steve is relieved when he finally gets off the train downtown. There are people everywhere, but the sun is just out between the buildings and the smell of coffee floated from every corner cart. He was determined to not think about the other things he could smell.  It was still a bit brisk, so he headed straight for the tower. Luckily a man like Tony Stark puts coffee shops in all his buildings. But first, the front desk.

 

“Uhm hi, I’m Steven Rogers...I’m here for an..interview.” He very nearly makes the face palm he is imagining a reality. The receptionist is unphased and proceeds to flick through a couple of files with absolute precision before pulling one out and handing him the badge inside of it. 

 

“The elevator bank on the left will take you to the 42 floor, just wave your badge at the sensor and press the button. You’re expected promptly at eight. Good day.” She says with a smile. Steve gets the impression it’s filled with ice. Much like her eyes. 

 

“Uh… thanks.” he stammers as he takes the badge. 

 

He quickly makes his way over to the coffee shop, he’s got fifteen minutes to shove something edible into his face and hopefully wash it down with caffeine.  He pays the barista in cash and drops the change back into the tip jar. Lemon poppyseed muffin and extra foam cappuccino in hand, he heads for the elevators. Every person in this building was taller than him and he really felt it in this little elevator alcove. Steve had to be careful about what he wore, suits had a tendency to make him look even more like a child. So he wore nice shirts and bow ties. And chinos. Being a one hundred pound artist helps with that too. He squeezes into the next elevator and slides his badge over the sensor without spilling his coffee. It was an exquisite moment of grace. Someone needs to witness this. But everyone just kept on being utterly silent, listening to what sounded like the elevator rendition of Thunderstruck. Huh.

The elevator is slower than expected, stopping on almost every floor on the way up. Steve was almost finished with his cappuccino and the muffin was but a memory by the time the elevator stopped on the forty second floor. The nearest trashcan was across the obnoxiously lit hall and before a common room that was filled with...bean bags? Huh. Very new age. As he’s taking the last sip of his coffee, something solid bumps into him from behind. His arm jolts and coffee slips down his chin and onto his shirt, leaving a dark, cold stain. Fuck.

He looks down at the stain, baffled. Really, today? Of all days? Tossing the cup, he turns to see what had bumped him, but all he could see was the retreating ponytail of a person slipping into a conference room down the hall. So much for manners. He has three minutes and this stain isn’t coming out anytime soon, so he hopes the dark blue fabric will hide it well enough. As he walks down the hall towards his future, he realizes it lies in the exact same room the ponytail had disappeared into. Well shit. 

Steve walks in with as much confidence as he can anyway, pushing the door open and listening to all the voices in the room hush as he does. If anyone had told him this morning that the first words out of his mouth in this all important job interview would be “Oh fuck”, he would have laughed….a lot. But alas, Steve’s first words in this all important interview were,

 

“Oh fuck.”

 

Sitting at a table across from him was Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, and…. Bucky?


	5. The Job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because you are all so lovely and generous with you comments, I decided to do what I apparently do best. Smut! So here you are and here we gooooo. As always, look at hearteyesmonroe for who to blame for this shit. And find me at thatotherfiend to yell and whatnot...

   
“Uh...well, that’s certainly one way to make an impression that the others hadn’t tried, but I’m pretty sure Pepp’s gonna need to see at least some of your work before I hire you on using foul language at inappropriate moments alone” says Mr. Stark, absently clicking a pen in his hand and swinging slightly from side to side in his spinning chair.

  
“Oh. Uh..yeah, art. I’ve got these...right.” Steve stops to take a deep breath. He can do this. He can totally ignore the fact that the best fuck of his life is sitting across from him. Interviewing him. For his dream job. He absolutely will not panic. Steve relaxes his white-knuckle grip on his portfolio, stands up to open it, and pulls out his first drawing. He has decided to start off by showing them the sketches, the backbone of the final products laid out in charcoal and conte crayon. As he lays out sketches, he starts talking about them.

  
“So I uh...I started off probably like every other artist who saw your call for work, thinking sleek and modern lines and bold color palettes. But then I remembered something.” He spreads his arms to emphasize the drawings on the table already. “These weren’t just any planes, they were Stark planes, and they had a purpose greater than just getting you somewhere and back again, like all Stark products. Stark industries isn’t exactly known for giving you just what you need, but giving you everything you’ve ever wanted and then surprising you with more. So why would Stark planes be any different? The start of someone’s vacation isn’t when they arrive at an exotic location, it’s when they buy the ticket, when they start packing, it’s when they start feeling the excitement build with each passing day. And the fantasy of the perfect vacation shouldn’t be shattered by boarding an ordinary plane, because a Stark plane is _not_ an ordinary plane, and it shouldn’t be forced to masquerade as one.” Steve keeps pulling out drawings in increasingly more polished forms, until finally he pulls out the final ten to place on top of the others, building a little timeline of his work. He’d spent so many hours building this project, and he hopes showing his work, his time, will help him get it. Realistically, he knows he likely won’t get the job simply because it was him who walked into the room. “Bucky” seems completely impassive, his face could be carved out of marble with how little it gives away as Steve speaks. But Steve can’t imagine a world in which his little indiscretion doesn’t play into him being forcibly escorted from the building, not given a job.

  
The last ten pictures are bold and bright and provocative. Like the girls painted on WWII fighter planes and recruitment posters. Like old Coca-Cola ads and vintage blue books. Some are tropical and others a little gritty, but all of them give a coy little smile and a sense of whimsical delight. Steve thinks they’re perfect, but his sweaty palms betray his nerves. He could have read this all wrong and any moment now he would be laughed out of the room. He clasps his hands behind his back to keep from wiping them on his pants.

  
Pepper picks up each girl gingerly, eyes darting across each page and then putting them down. Tony gives them a cursory glance and grins before sitting back in his chair and continuing to click his pen. Steve is afraid to look at “Bucky” to see what his face is saying. He waits.  
  
“Well, these certainly are impressive, and quite unlike anything we’ve seen thus far…” Steve begins to let a smile show on his face. “...however,” Steve’s smile falls before it even peaks through. “They seem to be missing something…” Pepper looks down at the drawings again, while Tony and “Bucky” seem just as perplexed as Steve. What had he missed? Were they sloppy compared to the others? Were they just..not what she wanted? Steve had kind of tailored this whole idea to Tony, knowing it was his pet project, and not really Pepper’s area. He was honestly surprised she was here, but assumed she just had to okay everything Tony did. But if Ms. Potts was displeased, he was pretty much dead in the water.

  
“Um...I’m so sorry, I’m sure I can...fix it? Yeah, I’d be happy to fix it, whatever it is.” Steve says nervously, his hands are reaching up unconsciously to fiddle with his hair before he makes an effort to pull them back down behind his back.  
  
“You seem to be missing a little...color. And a few other bits. Tell me, Mr. Rogers, who do you imagine is taking these… _fantasy vacations_? Because if you imagine all of and our only customers to be aging white men, these designs are indeed perfect. But, to the detriment of aging white men everywhere, they are not our customer base in its entirety.” She smirks a little at this. “Notably, they don’t even make up half of it, due to various boycotts based on Stark Industries increasingly public support of a number of social justice causes, from marriage to immigration. Not to mention their wildly unfounded concerns about our “emotional” new CEO, me. Subsequently, Stark industries has customer bases outside of the conventional, and we intend to keep courting them. If this poses a...difficulty to you in this type of work, then I’m afraid Stark Industries might not be the right fit for you.”

  
She raises her eyes to his, full of steel and challenge. He knew right then why no one dared cross Pepper Potts, she looked ready to have him forcibly removed from her presence should his answer fail to satisfy her. He got the impression Ms. Potts was a hard woman to satisfy, and felt new appreciation for Tony Stark and his ability to do just that.

  
Steve looks back at his drawings and immediately sees what she sees. He doesn’t know how it didn’t hit him before this. He’s spent hours upon hours pouring over these and not once had it occurred to him that they were a little...homogenous. Sure, one or two girls had a flattering tan sheen or a sun kissed glow, but he hadn’t...god he’s such an ass. And he gathered by “bits” Ms. Potts was trying to be professional while insinuating his art lacked...dicks. He was a gay man for fucks sake and it hadn’t occurred to him to include men? What the hell was wrong with him? His mouth pops open a little in shock, and he can see Tony nodding a little as he turns back to the drawings, his previous grin gone. “Bucky” remains as impassive as ever, but the slight furrow in his brow gives him away. He is concerned about Ms. Potts concern too.

  
“Oh. I can fix that, I can totally fix that, no problem. God, I honestly hadn’t even noticed, thank you so much for pointing that out. I feel like such an idiot.” He tries to be as earnest as possible, and he is earnest in this.  
“You and many others, Mr. Rogers, often fail to notice such things, but I appreciate your sincerity and willingness to rectify your oversight. Too few are willing to do the same.” The wry grin leaves her face as she straightens up from his drawings. “Well, with the adjustments, I feel like you’d be a great asset to the project, Mr. Rogers.” She turns to Tony. He raises his hands in supplication. “Yeah, whatever you say Pepps, I am on board. These are great and I think people will love them.” Pepper smiles a little and then turns her magnanimous gaze onto “Bucky”.

  
“Mr. Barnes?”

  
Well, he has a real name now. Sort of. Steve holds his breath as he finally meets his eyes. They are the same as he remembers, stormy and full of emotion. They search Steve’s, revealing nothing. The atmosphere ramps up with each passing second, and the tension mounting. He can’t really tell if it’s sexual or not, but the feeling coiling itself in his gut seems to decide for him. Sexual it is, then. Steve swallows reflexively, and suddenly his collar is much tighter than it had been seconds ago. There’s probably a blush rising on his cheeks and it’s going to give him away. He tries to avert his eyes but they just end up sweeping across broad shoulders encased in a worn leather jacket. The red henley is nowhere to be seen, but the black t-shirt that replaces it does the job of stretching across his chest just as well. His hair is put up into a much neater ponytail than the last time he had seen it, and also sans lube. Steve feels himself blush harder at the errant thought.  
Because Steve’s luck is about as Irish as it gets, “Bucky” catches his bright red face and something clicks in his eyes. They widen a little and Steve sees the same slow, teasing grin spread across his mouth that he had lost himself in on the subway. _Shit. Keep it together, Steve._ He absolutely would not get an erection at the tail end of a job interview. He moved his hands to the front, clasping them tightly and met the eyes staring back at him with a confidence he didn’t feel.  
“Yeah, sure, why not.” He says it with a slow drawl that goes straight to Steve’s dick. God, why is he like this? It was one time and he doesn’t even know this dude.

  
“Well. That’s it then. Welcome to the team Mr. Rogers, we’ll have someone get you squared away with your new workspace and bring you the paperwork up from HR.”

  
Ms. Potts snaps her paperwork onto the table and pushes her chair away from it. Tony follows, albeit with less grace. They both sweep from the room in a whirlwind of well tailored suits and sharp footsteps. Tony gives him an oddly friendly pat on the shoulder as he walks by and then he’s alone in the room. With “Bucky”. Who has adopted that signature spread out slouch in his chair. He has one elbow propped up onto the arm of the chair, holding up his chin as he watches Steve hastily try and put his portfolio back in order. He doesn’t think his face has ever been more red and his hands are almost shaking. Managing to get all of his work back into some semblance of order and put it back into his portfolio, he moves to leave. As soon as he turns around he hears Mr. Barnes get up. He follows Steve to the door and comes up behind him. Steve is immediately reminded of being in this place before, in front of an elevator and hyper aware of the warm mass of muscle inches from his back. And what does he do? Like an idiot, he pauses, waiting, because it seems familiar. It’s almost like muscle memory despite only having been in this position once before.

  
Mr. Barnes releases a small but pleased sounding huff. And then his arm is coming past Steve’s shoulder, just like last time, and pushing lightly on a panel that causes the frosted glass in front of him to slide aside. The hand relocates to Steve’s lower back, spanning it and guiding him out of the room and to the right. They’re going the opposite direction of the bean bag room and the elevator bank. Most of his mind is holding a pinpoint focus on the hand on his back, it’s hot and large and applying just enough pressure to keep him moving at a steady clip. Until he’s abruptly pulled to the left by the same hand and into a dark, small room. He barely has time to register the closing of a door before he’s pushed up against it. Hard. There is one single white recessed light casting a glow in the room, illuminating several cleaning solutions and an empty mop bucket.

  
“Bucky” stands in front of him, smirk still in place, and eyes slowly gliding down his body. His jeans are darker than the ones Steve has seen him in before, and a part of him wonders if he’s wearing any underwear under these ones or not. The stubble he can remember feeling against his ass is missing but he can still make out the telling outline of dog tags beneath the tight black shirt.

  
“I-” Steve goes to say...something, anything to somehow make sense of this situation, but finds a hand swiftly covering his mouth. He looks back up as “Bucky” puts his other hand to his lips, making a shushing noise at him. Steve was just shushed. And he thinks he liked it. Damn. Before he can pull his own hand up to remove the one covering his lips, he feels two fingers pop past his cheek and into his mouth. Oh god. Why on earth is this so hot? Steve doesn’t even decide to drop his portfolio, it just happens. His eyes flutter closed and his tongue caresses the fingers in his mouth without his mind having given permission for it to do anything of the sort.

  
Suddenly there’s a rough voice in his ear, warm breath ghosting across his neck, making him shiver all the way to his toes. “My my my, who would have guessed this hole was just as...hungry as the last one?” he says, pushing his fingers in just a little harder and making Steve moan around them. He feels Barnes’ other hand move to the back of his head and then grip his hair harshly, punching a groan out of him and making his knees go a little shaky with the feeling. At the same time the fingers pop out of his mouth with a wet sound, leaving his mouth free to gasp for air. But he doesn’t even catch his breath before he’s being shoved to his knees harshly by the hand twisted in his hair. He can’t help but watch as the fingers covered in his spit start pulling at the belt in front of him and tugging on the zipper. Some part of Steve’s mind takes a bit of pride in being right, there are no underwear beneath that zipper and the other parts of Steve are positively thrilled to be inches away from the cock he was pretty sure he must’ve imagined.

  
It was just as big as he remembered it being, curving upwards to reveal the prominent vein on the underside. Steve thinks he’s found a new shade of red to make his favorite color as he watches a fist grip the base and slowly squeeze a small glob of moisture out of the swollen head. He can’t stop the whimper that leaves his mouth at the sight. Licking his lips, he tries to lean forward to lick something else and is stopped by the hand in his hair, pulling him back gently but purposefully. His eyes flick up to meet the ones staring down at him with smug satisfaction.

  
“Oh, so pretty doll, but you didn’t think you’d get it without working for it this time, did you? You gotta promise to be a good boy, and good boys don’t make a sound, do they?” He doesn’t stop the slow glide of his fist over his cock while he speaks, and if Steve weren’t already wet in his pants, he would be at those words.

  
Whatever strange impetus had kept the man from speaking during their first encounter doesn’t seem to be affecting him now, and Steve didn’t know which gods to be thanking for that. Something about this man in particular makes Steve lose his mind. Somewhere, he knows this is just as bad of an idea as it was that fateful morning. Probably worse now that he knows it’s his boss he’s in a broom closet with. But Steve must have finally ran out of fucks to give, because almost no part of him wants to fight this. He tries to give a small nod of his head despite the hand fisting his hair. Barnes seems to get the point though. Slowly moving Steve’s head back towards his cock, he stops stroking it to let it rest against rosy lips. Steve can feel the small bead of pre-cum smear across his upper lip and it’s everything he can do not to surge forward, damn the controlling hand on his head, but he waits. And doesn’t make a sound, like a good boy. The smile that stretches across the face staring down at him is downright benevolent, and should probably be illegal.

  
“Good, doll, so good. Now open up real nice, do you think you can take the whole thing?” His voice sounds rough, and utters the words with a dark and cruel twist to the sounds. If Steve believed anyone could be angry about getting a blow job, he’d say Barnes was angry, and something in Steve seems to be eager to make it better. He opens his mouth around the leaking head and looks up from under his lashes. Barnes is bent over him with one hand braced on the closed door, the other holding Steve stone still by his hair. His mouth is slightly open and his cold eyes are watching Steve’s lips as he pushes his cock forward ever so slowly.

  
Steve doesn’t move. He knows he’s not supposed to, and if he doesn’t, he’s pretty sure he’ll get the face fucking of his life. The head is just past his lips before he begins to struggle a bit with the girth, so he takes a breath through his nose and tries to relax further. He puts more of his weight on the hand holding onto him and feels a little more of the hot, smooth flesh push past his lips. They’re already starting to lose a little slickness, the little bit of fluid he can taste not quite enough to make the glide smooth. Barnes seems to notice too and pulls out just far enough smear more pre-cum across his lips, some across the side of his cheek too, but Steve is sure thats just a sloppy accident. He pushes back in, getting a little farther, before pulling out again to coat Steve’s lips again. The steady advance of his cock slows when he senses it reaching the back of Steve’s throat, but it gives no resistance. Steve has a habit of getting things shoved down his throat, both for medically necessary reasons and some...not so much. So a gag reflex isn’t something he’s worried about in maybe a decade or so.

  
He sees Barnes’ eyes widen a little as he realizes Steve’s talent, and feels the accompanying enthusiastic shove in the back of his throat. He doesn’t flinch, only swallows around it and begins to suck just a little. This pushes a grunt out of Barnes’ chest, and the sound goes straight to Steve’s groin. He’s doing well, being a good boy, and the heavy weight on his tongue is heaven. The bitter taste in his mouth makes him want to moan, but he remembers in time to stifle it. Each thrust gets easier to take, and before too long his jaw is slack and his throat is swallowing reflexively every time. He can feel the drool slipping down his chin cooling and couldn’t be more pleased. Well, he could be. Despite the harsh hold on his hair, he seems to be holding back, thrusting fully but gently. Before he loses himself in the rhythm, he looks back up with challenge in his eyes. He can take it harder, hell, he wants it harder and he is not fucking breakable. At least not right now.

  
But at his look, the thrusts stop all together and Steve barely holds back the whine inching its way up his throat. Fuck. Anything but stopping right now, he’ll do anything, take it nice and slow or even beg. He is so not above begging right now. The look in Barnes’ eyes isn’t one of disapproval though, it’s almost contemplative and a little disbelieving. It’s gone before Steve can even believe he saw it in the first place and then the hand at residence in his hair moves to cup the right side of his face, thumb pressing against the hard shaft inside his cheek and fingers wrapping past his ear and to the base of his neck. Steve feels small in this particular moment, and gets the distinct impression he’s about to be manhandled. Sure enough, he is moved bodily backward, pressing against the door and held there by the hand on his neck. There’s pressure, but not enough to restrict him. Barnes’ hips follow him, keeping his mouth full and then pressing in farther as the back of his head meets the solid cold steel of the door.

  
The hand doesn’t move, but the hips in front of him do, resuming their measured pace. But this time each thrust gets harder, the strokes pulling out farther and going deeper each time. Steve has nowhere to go, not that he would want to be anywhere but here. He isn’t really paying much attention to his erection anymore, it’s almost secondary to the pleasure in the back of his throat and on his tongue. He loses himself in the feeling and isn’t quite sure how much time passes before he feels the thrusts getting shorter and sharper. The tight little breaths escaping above him are another hint, and he grips the fabric of his pants stretched over his thighs tightly, preparing. His body is almost shaking with the anticipation of it and his cock leaks a bit more inside his briefs at the thought.

  
“Bucky” gives three more savage thrusts, the last culminating in a full body shiver Steve can feel through his dick alone, before he’s coming in thick, jerky, spurts down Steve’s throat. Steve fights the urge to moan aloud at the feeling and instead swallows around the thick length in his mouth.

  
“Fuck.” he says breathlessly from above Steve, panting harshly and still thrusting minutely with the aftershocks of his orgasm. He meets Steve’s eyes, and they’re softer than he’s seen them all day for a moment before they close off again. His head is still held against the door as the softening cock is slowly pulled from his slick, red mouth. He lets a bit of spit and cum drip from his bottom lip before reaching out with the tip of his tongue to sweep it back into his mouth. Barnes groans at that, still watching him with harsh eyes before straightening up and putting his dripping, and frankly still unbelievably large, dick back into his jeans with efficiency Steve couldn’t help but admire in someone who had just come hard enough down his throat to make speaking a difficulty.  
Steve is panting, trying to catch his breath, while waiting for his next...order? Barnes tucks loose strands of hair that have escaped from his neat ponytail behind his ear and flicks his eyes down Steve’s body, catching on his hard dick trapped behind his pants, still contributing valiantly to the growing and increasingly visible wet patch. Curse his overactive dick, he didn’t bring spare pants for this kind of thing. The roving eyes swipe back up to meet his, and then are joined by cruel and knowing little smirk. And in that moment Steve knows what he means, so his hands move shakily to the fastenings of his pants. He barely gets a hand inside his own briefs and around his cock before he can feel his own peak swiftly approaching. Not knowing if the “not a sound” rule still applies, but not willing to risk it, he bites his bottom lip to keep his small noises in. He can still taste the bitter bite of come on it and it only drives him closer to his end. One more rough stroke up to the sensitive tip of his cock and he’s coming, as silently as he can manage, and shaking with the force of it. He tries his best to keep it all in his fist, but if some makes it onto his pants, they were already a bit of a lost cause.

  
Before he can so much as catch his breath, he’s being shifted to the side, delicately, and then the door is opening, hiding him behind it.

  
“Thanks.” Mr. Barnes says with a bit of a smile before swiftly exiting the door and closing it behind him, leaving Steve panting on the floor.

  
_What the fuck just happened?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're happy ya filthy animals...as always, comment away, good folks.


	6. The Paperwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, oh my god. I am so sorry for the wait, and I hope this chapter is okay. I promise I WILL FINISH THIS. And for being such good readers, Chapter 7, I promise something that brings out Steve's inner exhibitionist :). Ya'll thank hearteyesmonroe for all her lovely help and for putting up with my bullshit in general...and as always, find me at thatotherfiend on the hellscape, tumblr.

Steve knows his pants are a lost cause. He is desperately thinking of ways to get out of the building with his dignity intact. And then he remembers that someone from HR was supposed to show him to a cubicle and make him sign some paperwork.  _ Shit. _

Steve stands up and straightens his clothes and tries to do the same to his hair. Both are a bit of a lost cause. He picks up his portfolio and does his best to make the way it’s covering most of his lower body seem casual. As he steps out of the room, he begins to realize that he has no idea where to go or how to find HR. He absently wanders down the sleek hall, still a little dazed and wishing for a bit of a nap.  _ It’s been a bit of a roller-coaster kind of day _ , he thinks to himself. At the end of the hallway he can just see the wide doors of the beanbag room he passed earlier, in what seems like another life. A life where he didn’t blow his new boss in cleaning closets.  _ Well, _ he thinks,  _ one common area is as good as any other.  _ Steve makes his eyes leave the floor as he turns into the room, and immediately spots the coffee carafe across the room. An idea sluggishly makes its way into the space his brain used to occupy.  _ Before it was turned into oversexed slush _ , the slush supplies unhelpfully. The small coffee stain from this morning lends to the idea. He makes a beeline for the kitchenette and quickly begins to pull a cup of coffee from the pot. Unfortunately it was still hot. Very hot. But at that moment the sharp click of heels behind him interrupts his self-preservation instincts. As he turns towards the sound, seeming to startle, he lets the coffee spill onto his stomach and, most importantly, onto his pants. He’s right, it is hot, but the alternative is worse. The woman approaching him is in tight jeans, bright red pumps, and the blouse she’s wearing would have looked professional on a less endowed woman. All together, she looks more suited to a fashion magazine than a tech company, but the sheaf of papers in her hands gives her away as the HR rep. Her vaguely sinister glare morphs into wide-eyed shock as the coffee seeps down his legs, burning as it goes, but not as much as the shame of being caught in sticky corduroy would have. He’s going to be a bit red, but otherwise it’s not the worst burn he’s ever had. 

“Oh my god, are you okay? I am so so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Well, I mean, I did, but not into like...hurting yourself. God I’m an asshole.” She says rapidly while fumbling with napkins and then quickly pulling back the hand that was making to pat at the cum come coffee stain on his crotch. 

“...errr, um, it’s alright, it’s my fault, I should’ve...been more careful. Are you from HR?” Steve says, trying to pull at his cooling pants on his thighs.

“HR. Right, yeah. I’m Darcy. I’m here to show you to your office and get your signature on all these poor dead trees.” As she speaks, her voice evens until the icy tone is unmistakable. She turns abruptly and strolls quickly through the myriad of bean bags and towards the door. 

Steve is hurrying to follow her, leaving a few coffee soaked napkins in his wake and awkwardly shuffling his portfolio onto his shoulder. Darcy turns left out of the doors and continues down the sleek hallway, walking much faster than any woman in those shoes has a right to. After a few more turns and a couple of dizzying looks to the lobby over glass railings, she opens a frosty glass door and stares blankly at him, waiting for him to enter.

He goes for lack of anything better to do, like ask what the hell he did to piss her off. There’s a sleek desk wrapped into a corner and the entire back wall isn’t a wall at all, but a blue crystal sheet of glass, providing a stunning view of the city and nearby skyscrapers. Darcy quickly sets down the sheaf of papers and a pen next to it.

“All the details, including tax information, salary, benefits, and the Stark Industries employee handbook...which includes non-discrimination policies on the basis of race, sex, gender, religion, political affiliation….or disability. Physical or otherwise…” She says the last part with venom, letting her distaste seep into her eyes and face. It was an odd look on what Steve would have otherwise assumed was a whimsical and sultry face.

Steve shifts nervously for a moment, picking up the pen to fidget with before saying

“Um...I don’t know if I’ve..uh, accidentally done something to personally offend you… but I’m really sorry if I have and I uhh hope to…” he trails off, seeing the look on Darcy’s face, which is still an awkward mixture of confusion and distaste. She seems to collect herself before speaking again, pulling on a veneered smile,

“While employee fraternization is not expressly forbidden by the handbook...or Mr. Stark...treating fellow co-workers with anything less than respect is…” She seems to falter and struggle with finding her words for a moment before her shoulders drop into a more relaxed slouch, flings her dark hair back with a flip, and sighs heavily. “If you had a problem with the soldier thing or the rough treatment, hell, even the dick thing, fine, but really? The fucking scars is what got you? And then you just booked it?” She sighs again, “Look, just...do your best or whatever and with luck he won’t ever have to see you again.” 

Steve knows his mouth is open a bit and his eyes are wide with surprise. He can’t find words. Darcy apparently knows the intimate details of his sexual encounter with the subway hobo who turned out to be his new boss.  _ Great. Just...peachy,  _ he thinks. 

“Uhm...Look, I’m sorry I don’t…really see how that has anything to do with you...”  _ Wait. All systems stop. About face.  _ “...Scars, what scars? I mean I remember the, the dick and...Wait, how do you even know about that??” 

“I’m Bucky’s best friend, of course I know about it. And what the hell do you mean ‘what scars?’ They only cover his entire arm, you couldn’t have missed them! They’re why you ran like a freshman girl in a frat house the next morning! HE MADE FRENCH TOAST.” She was flat out yelling by the end of her little speech, looking more at home in her red shoes and smokey eyes than she had any time before. 

“Uhm. Yeah, I wasn’t really...Paying too much attention to...to much…” he mutters. “And by the time I woke up I was..well frankly I thought I had followed a random stranger back to his goddamn mattress lair for crazy sex and lost a good outfit in the process. And that I had missed my interview. And I may have gotten an STD test right after...because well, condoms weren’t...really a high priority at the moment...in the moment. Whatever. I have no idea what you’re talking about...Are you sure we’re talking about the same...nevermind, yeah, we are.” 

And as he finishes speaking, it dawns on him. “Bucky’s” cold shoulder, the brush off treatment in the closet. It all makes so much more sense. He must have thought that Steve had...oh god, he was such an idiot. 

“Wait, his name is actually “Bucky”? And why the fuck does a high level Stark employee have a goddamn mattress lair for fuck sake?” Things are just not clicking in Steve’s mind, but it’s working on overdrive to try and put the pieces together.  _ And you probably shouldn’t be yelling expletives at the HR department, _ he scolds himself. He is so fired, and it’s only his first day. Brilliant.

The sheer variety of emotions that flash across Darcy’s face is impressive. There’s confusion, shock, elation, and what Steve thinks is exasperation. Before he can ask about all of them, or even one of them, she is spinning abruptly and marching directly out of his new office. The frosty pane of glass slides closed behind her, softly, almost ruining the effect of her dramatic exit. Almost.

Steve is motionless for a few moments, bewildered as to what exactly just happened, and considering if he still has a job or not. He decides that his best option is to assume he’s still employed until someone comes to escort him out of the building. He didn’t actually bring that much with him, not expecting to be hired on the spot, but he does have his laptop and all of his work. The portfolio is propped next to the desk while he plugs in the power adapter to his laptop and waits for it to boot. Steve spends the next several hours making notes on his drawing and looking for references for the changes he has to make. He ends up deciding to just create a few more designs from scratch to add to the current ones as well as modify some existing girls. Just as he’s adding a few new color swatches to his skin tone palette, an email notification pings onto his desktop. 

It’s from the clinic.

Oh. It wasn’t that he had forgotten, but the email pulls him out of the fugue he tends to descend into while designing. He almost doesn’t want to click it. He does anyway. 

A slightly chipper paragraph informs him that the results of his test are in, and he is negative across the board. Aside from his normal health issues, he’s perfectly fine. They will send him a detailed report via post, the email informs him.

He puts his hands into his hair as he sighs in relief. A weight he hadn’t noticed had fallen on him lifts and he can breath again. Next, he texts Nat.

Steve:  _ Hey. got the results. im clean _ . 

Nat:  _ ill come pick u up. dont argue. beer _ .

Steve:  _ Im not exactly at home right now...its been a bit of a day… _

Nat:  _ Where r u? Ill come get u, im off early _

Steve: .. _.would you believe me if i said Stark Tower? _

Nat: . _.u got the job?! _ ^o^

Steve:  _ sort of. Ill tell you over pizza. Youre buying. For me and the dog. _

Nat:  _ uhg. Fine. see u in 20 _

Steve doesn’t text back, just packs up his laptop. He decides to leave his portfolio. Travelling with it too much puts the art at more risk, so he’s not going to take it on any more trains than absolutely necessary. The late afternoon sun is just beginning to turn a darker shade of orange, casting impressive trails of light over the city and glittering off glass panes brilliantly. Steve thinks he could get used to this view. He hopes he gets to keep it.  _ Not if your dick has anything to say about it, _ he reminds himself. 

By the time he makes it back down to the lobby, several wrong turns and one embarrassing request for directions later, Nat is already there. Her bright red hair and over sized sunglasses do little to help her blend in, and he spots her as soon as he steps out of the elevator. As he approaches, he can tell even from behind her shades that there is one groomed eyebrow raised in question at the dry but darkened stain on his crotch. 

“Don’t. Ask.” he says, following her out of the lobby and onto the street. Steve makes a quick detour into small tourist shop. He grabs the nearest pair of pants he can see and steps to the register. Nat is stifling laughter, he can tell. Ducking into the bathroom with his purchase, he turns back to throw a glare in her direction. When he steps back out, his stained pants are folded tightly into his messenger bag next to his laptop, along with his underwear. He pointedly ignores the large “I <3 NY” splashed down his heather grey clad left leg. 

The nearest subway station is only a block, and it’s packed with people just getting off of work. The crowd still makes it a little hard to breath when they press onto the northbound train, but Steve doesn’t panic. The ride to the stop closest to Clint’s place is short and only involves changing tracks once. It’s nearly dark outside by the time they’re climbing up the narrow, carpeted stairs towards his apartment. Clint’s building is old and creaky and probably hasn’t been renovated since the 70’s. Nat sweeps up to a door marked “616” and simply pushes it open. Knocking is apparently for lesser mortals, Steve notes. He hopes Clint is at least wearing pants this time.

Immediately after Steve steps into the apartment there is a wet nose in his hand and the excited yip of Lucky to let him know that he is remembered. He usually remembers to fill his pockets with treats for Lucky, but he doesn’t have any today. Lucky seems to realize this and bounds away in search of greener pastures. 

Clint is already sprawled out on one corner of the couch, but stands when Nat approaches, and walks towards the kitchen across the room. His hair is a bit of a bird’s nest and the violent shade of purple his pajamas are assaults Steve’s eyes in the flickering fluorescent over the kitchen.

“Anyone want something to drink...uhh. Soda? Coffee? Beer?”

Nat makes a motion that Steve is inclined to believe means “Beer” in some language of gestures only she and Clint know, because he comes back from the fridge with 3 beers and sets them on the coffee table. 

“Pizza should be here in ten” She says, looking at her phone screen and toeing off her heels underneath the table. 

“You ordered pizza?” Clint says, looking at Nat with watery, joyous eyes. 

“Steve owes me one hell of a story apparently. Spill.”

Steve sits down in the broken down recliner next to the sofa and grabs for one of the cans in front of him. “Okay. Yeah. God, where do I even start. So, I get to the tower, it’s like a dream, and I, being a complete idiot, immediately spill coffee on myself. Great. It can’t get worse, right? No, the universe hates me. It got worse. Obviously Tony Stark is in my interview, but of all the fucking people, can you guess who else is there? Of all the goddamn people!?” Steve’s eyes aren’t meeting anyone’s as he yells abjectly at his beer. 

“Fucking subway guy.”

Nat gasps a little and lets out a little whispered “...nooooo.”

“Yes. He’s my new goddamn boss, because somehow Pepper Pots likes my art and Tony Stark likes the way I say “fuck” really quietly while meeting the eyes of his coworkers. Awesome right? But it doesn’t stop there, oh no. After the interview, who should I find myself in a goddamn janitor’s closet with but Mr. Mattress Lair himself. God he’s hot and huge and then he just…” Steve is already bright red and breathing rapidly by the time he realizes he can’t just...spill the sordid encounter. It seems the universe agrees. He hears a solid knock on Clint’s apartment door.

“Oh no you don’t. I’m going to get the pizza and then you are so telling me what happened in that closet, Steven. In detail.”

Steve buries his face in his hands and groans. God, this is the second time he’s had to tell Nat, and by extension and default Clint, about his decidedly unorthodox sex life. How is she still friends with him? She sits back down and plops the pizza onto the table next to the beer, opening the box to reaching hands and one snout. 

“Continue.”

“Well, uh, yeah. So after the closet, I-”

“Oh no you don’t. What the hell did crazy subway “Bucky” do to you in a Stark Tower closet?” Her eyes widen in realization. “Ohmygod, is that why…” She gestures vaguely to his still embarrassingly new sweatpants. “Holy shit. He got you off, in a closet, on the clock. What a beast. I think I’m beginning to like him” she finishes with snark.

“Uhmm, not exactly?” He says in reply, and it’s true, Bucky didn’t exactly get him off. He did that all on his own, embarrassingly enough. “I sort of...blewhimandcameinmypants!” Maybe if he says it fast enough he can pretend he never said it at all. 

“I’m sorry, you what?” sputters Clint, coughing a little at the carbonated liquid now in his nose. 

“I uh, let him...well, made him fuck my face in a closet, okay!? Jesus, and then I had to spill an entire cup of coffee on myself to hide it when the HR lady found me! What else was I supposed to do? “Oh don’t mind me, just coming in closets with my new and absolutely unfairly hung boss, carry on”? No. And then, it somehow got worse! She hates me. On sight. Immediately. Come to find out, she thinks I somehow...ran out on her boss because of some terrible scars or something? I swear, I had no idea what she was talking about, and then she just...left.” Steve takes a breath, somehow managing to not breath throughout that whole spiel. 

“...Wow. Not what I expected, but somehow better.” Clint seems entirely flabbergasted while maintaining only one slightly elevated eyebrow. “Are you fired?”

“I don’t think so, but I’m pretty sure I have to go back tomorrow and make some very impressive apologies. God, I am so dumb.”

After that, the conversation devolves into discussions of cases and criminals, with Nat and Clint leading most of the conversation. Lucky steals another slice of pizza before falling asleep on his bed by the TV. There are more empties on the table and it’s getting quite late. Steve stands to stretch and tells Nat that he should get home before it gets any later. She decides to stay, not surprisingly. Steve doesn’t know why they don’t just move in together already, but he doesn’t really have any room to be judging other people’s love lives right now, so he picks up his bag and soon finds himself stepping onto a train bound for Brooklyn.

Back in his own apartment and his own bed, after throwing a load of laundry in, he hopes that maybe he might get lucky and not have to see Mr. Barnes at all tomorrow. Or ever again for the rest of his life. 

That thought is somehow a disquieting one, and his last before he slips off into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> MASSIVE thanks and credit to hearteyesmonroe for her editing and just generally putting up with my bullshit on a near daily basis. Kudos if you liked it, comment if you totally hated it.


End file.
